


Between Silver and Iron

by dysphorie



Category: John 5 (Musician), Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: 4/5, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RPF, They Are Idiots, This Is STUPID, Werewolves, chicken fried steak, eventual dead doves, haha time for monsterfucking, just warning you upfront, love is stored in the knot, mention of Denny's, werewolf boyfriend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: "So why in blue blazes is he currently chilling on the kerb outside his local location, watching the sun coming up while surrounded by what seems to be the largest crowd of unwashed bodies the world has ever seen this side of Ozzfest, gulping down a huge iced tea (not purchased from Denny’s, thank you very much) like his life depends on it by sucking on the straw like it's the most delicious dick ever?Isn't it obvious? He's looking for some werewolf wang and apparently this particular Denny's at this particular time is a veritable all-you-can-eat buffet of monster cock!"Or, the curious case of John Lowery and the werewolf in the Denny's. John's looking for a werewolf boyfriend, but is Jim therightwerewolf boyfriend?
Relationships: John 5/Jim Root
Comments: 22
Kudos: 19
Collections: Love Is Stored In The Knot





	1. Good Morning Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote a monsterfucking fic for kinktober and we all collectively lost our shits and werewolves are The Thing To Write now, so here we are. I didn't have any ideas, Julia had too many, they went HERE HAVE THIS and I panicked and well, this is the result!
> 
> Tags will be updated as chapters progress. Updates will happen...when they happen. I don't own or know any people in this, this is a work of fiction, RPF to be specific, etc etc
> 
> Not looking for crit, constructive or otherwise!

Denny's has literally never been John's idea of a good time. Like, ever. As far as he's concerned, Denny's is the culinary equivalent of that one popcorn kernel you can't get out from between your teeth without ripping your tongue to shreds. John would rather clean his gross pal Manson's toilet with his tongue after it had been used than subject it to Denny's coffee. Don’t _even_ get him started on the food. Even if John wasn’t a vegan he’d be swerving the microwaved placemats they allow to masquerade as “beef”. In summation, John wouldn’t be caught dead in a Denny’s in a million years.

So why in blue blazes is he currently chilling on the kerb outside his local location, watching the sun coming up while surrounded by what seems to be the largest crowd of unwashed bodies the world has ever seen this side of Ozzfest, gulping down a huge iced tea ( _not_ purchased from Denny’s, thank you very much) like his life depends on it by sucking on the straw like it's the most delicious dick ever?

Isn't it obvious? He's looking for some werewolf wang and apparently _this_ particular Denny's at this particular time is a veritable all-you-can-eat buffet of monster cock!

Or at least it's supposed to be. John looks around him, squinting through his sunglasses at the bodies starting to come back to life as the sun starts to bake them through the hazy clouds. They all have waxy skin and smell of sweat dried by the overnight chill, topped off with a hearty helping of cheap rum and stale beer. It makes John wrinkle his nose but he's not disheartened; he's taken home easily half a dozen men in worse states than this that turned out to just be mortally hungover. He’d quote F. Scott Fitzgerald’s _The Beautiful And The Damned_ , “Here’s to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life,” but John doesn’t drink so he can’t exactly use that as an excuse for his terrible taste in men. Statistically sooner or later one of them has to be the werewolf he was promised, and he doesn't mind kissing a few frogs if it helps him find his fabled lycanthrope lover. 

John's not entirely sure _how_ he knows his previous lays haven't been werewolves. He just does. There's just...an air of apathy about them, a lack of urgency that'd probably get them killed if they were actual werewolves, and John doesn't want that from _any_ prospective partner, never mind one that like _needs_ those skills to survive. John doesn't want some werewolf scrub either; if he's gonna tear himself from peehole to asshole on a knotted cock, it had best be one attached to a guy who's worth the pain. 

For a second the sun vanishes and John's cloaked in darkness. By the time he looks up, curious, the shadow's passed and he's not prepared for the vision that greets him. Thank fuck for sunglasses because John's eyes are like fucking saucers because _WOW, who parked the beef bus?_ John can't even see the guy's face because he's so tall, but considering John's face is currently level with the strangers crotch, he's not really stressing about that. Tearing his eyes away from the denim-clad bulge he leans back, and further back again, practically lying on the sidewalk by the time their eyes meet because not only is this fucker an actual giant, he's also standing _really_ fucking close. Close enough that before he moved, John could smell the grass stains on the knees of his jeans and a mixture of sweat and oil and something sharp and outdoorsy that clung to a well-worn flannel shirt.. Almost metallic. Not unpleasant, but unfamiliar enough to get John interested. 

The guy stands there staring down at John, making sweat start to prickle at the nape of his neck. It’s a borderline visceral reaction, something stimulating his fight or flight responses which feels kinda excessive and disproportionate to the situation. _Get it together you soggy napkin, John._ There’s zero need to feel like a prey animal when he’s just having a perfectly normal conversation with a handsome man. 

A handsome man who looks like a lumberjack that could tear him apart in more ways than one.

He clears his throat, lifts his head til he can look him roughly in the eye. The guy hasn’t moved, he’s still just fucking staring. Well, two can play at that game. Supporting himself on one arm, John slides his glasses down his nose to peer over the top, praying that he looks coquettish and alluring rather than screwed up and squinty-eyed.

Oh shit. John rarely swears but oh _shiiiiiiit._ The guy’s eyes are soft. His hair too, tumbling around his head in messy brown waves streaked with blonde, framing a lopsided smile filled with slightly crooked teeth. John gulps. The guy tilts his head, raises an eyebrow that makes a bead of sweat roll down John’s back and his mouth instantly dry out. So many of his boxes are being ticked right now and he’s trying to keep his cool but the longer he sits here being stared at, the more of a whole-grain idiot he feels. All the witty one-liner openers he’s been working on for a moment like this have abandoned him in his time of need.

Mercifully his beautiful stranger puts John out of his misery and breaks the silence for him.

“You look like you could do with a refill there,” the guy says, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. John doesn’t smoke but he’s always had a thing for guys who do. Something to do with the literal possibility of being burned, perhaps. John’s never given it much thought and he’s not about to start now. His voice is gravelly; sounds dry like he drank too much last night and smoked too much this morning and _god,_ John wants to wet this guy’s throat with his spit, lick into his mouth until he’s a drooling mess. Hear what his voice sounds like when it’s lubricated and calling out John’s name. He feels his mouth open of its own accord, lips sticking before they part, and _oh no, don’t say anything about tongues and spit and sucking his dick now, John, now is not the time..._

Thankfully his brain finally revs up, and instead he says the first halfway sensible thing that pops into his head: “You buying?” _Smoooooooth._

"That depends. You a cheap date? Cos you look a little high-maintenance for a joint like this," is the response he gets, that cigarette being waved in the vague direction of the huge red and yellow sign that’s competing with the rising sun to bathe the lot in dim yellow light.

“I’m John, the cheapest date you'll ever have.” _What in the everlasting hell is that supposed to mean? John Lowery, you are pathetic._ What is happening, in this location, on this day? John feels like he took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. There’s a long beat of silence where John’s still just being stared at, and he starts to worry he’s got the wrong end of the stick when the guy extends his hand.

“Jim,” is all he says. John shakes his hand, prays his palms aren’t clammy and sweaty. Thank god Jim leans forward because from his perch on the kerb John’s not certain he could’ve reached otherwise. Straightening up, Jim says “Well, I don’t know about you John, but I’m starving and in desperate need of some decent coffee, so if you don’t mind…”

John’s brain glosses over the fact that he’s not exactly stopping Jim from going into the diner. He could probably just step right over John. John thinks he’d rather Jim stepped on him.

“Decent coffee? From a freaking Denny’s? Don’t those two things, like, cancel each other out?” It comes out cheeky, just a little sassy. Enough that John feels a bit more like himself again, a bit more in control of himself.

With an exaggerated eyeroll Jim smirks and moves to walk by. John stays where he is. Waiting. Expecting. Hoping?

Sure enough, Jim stops next to John, looks down and offers him his hand this time. “Care to find out for yourself?” John looks up at him. “Or are you too good for a fucking Denny’s?”

John takes the proffered hand and drags himself up, trailing Jim into the godforsaken fucking Denny’s.

They don’t talk at first. The hostess looks them over when Jim requests a table for two, as if she's wondering what she did wrong in life to deserve their presence in her establishment, and just grunts at them as she leads them to a booth in the back corner of the diner. Slapping their menus on the table, she pushes past John growling something about _“Wourder”_ but John pays her no mind. Jim waves a hand indicating John should sit first, and John nearly faints, charmed by the stupidity of it all.

Jim instantly buries his face in the menu, flipping pages back and forth over and over and reminding John of that time he tried to read Game of Thrones and had to keep going back to check _this_ characters name and whether or not _that_ character died or was it their sister or look-a-like or what. He just sips his tea, ignoring the waitress’s disapproving glare, and watches the way Jim’s hair curls around his stubbly jaw, the way he fiddles with the hair tie around his fingers while he reads. Once or twice Jim licks his lips and John’s pretty sure it’s giving him heart palpitations that surely other people in the restaurant can hear, but he’s pretty sure he’s doing a decent job of keeping his thirst under wraps. Maybe. Kinda. Either way, Jim doesn’t seem any the wiser, so John’s free to perv to his heart’s content. 

So far he hasn’t gleaned much, but he knows that Jim’s eyes are green and just the right amount of glazed, enough to look a bit tired and soft and out of it but not enough to still be drunk or high or whatever. That he’s quite frankly ludicrously tall, even bigger than John could’ve estimated. Like John barely crests his shoulder, which has him wondering if Jim could lift him and what that could lead to and _fuck,_ he _really_ has to get his imagination in check before he demands the guy just raw him right here on the chipped melamine table. 

John’s learned that Jim’s voice is deep but soft when he’s not having to raise it over early morning traffic, and when the surly waitress comes to slam down their glasses of water and take their order he has to try not to let his jaw drop open as Jim orders a Grand Slam, chicken fried steak, and what seems like every meat-based side on offer and tells her to leave the coffee jug. The surly waitress growls when John mumbles something about fries and another iced tea, but he barely registers it. Jim’s handed his menu back and he’s looking at John with those slightly out of focus eyes as he drains his water in seconds, and John can’t think straight.

"So," Jim starts, banging his glass down sharply enough to make John jump out of his reverie. "What brings you here at this hour? Something tells me it's not the gourmet coffee."

John hesitates. How honest should he be? _Oh, I'm here to meet horny werewolf singles in my area, even though I only seem to find horny simpletons instead? Somehow that doesn't seem like a great idea._

He rubs his hands together as he speaks. "Uh, I'm here to...meet someone." _Nice save, numbnuts._

Jim doesn't seem to find anything strange about that, thankfully. He's just toying with his hair tie and looking at John, mouth tilted up the tiniest bit. John's losing all his game, doesn't know what to say or do except squirm under Jim's gaze.

"Been a lotta animal attacks in this area recently...you heard about that?"

_Okaaaaay, that's..._ John's not sure _what_ that is, but it's not what he was expecting. Just roll with it! "Yeah, yeah I heard about that," he says, curious enough to wonder where Jim's going with this. It’s been all over the news recently; people going missing, bloody body parts turning up, general mass hysteria. The usual. The last John heard was a rumour about a big cat being responsible, though no two media sources seem to be able to agree on what kind of animal is actually to blame. Some say cat, some say wolf. After seeing the state of some of the body parts that have turned up, maybe even bears. Bodies that haven’t been torn limb from limb still have their throats torn out and viscera missing, mutilated with no apparent pattern or habit so experts seem stumped. Didn’t exactly deter John from following his dick out here though. No one could accuse him of being a sensible man. "Why'd you ask?"

Jim shrugs. "Just curious. Most of the people I see around just end up here, they don’t like, come here intentionally. Especially not since all that started.” He pauses, taking a gulp of coffee, still staring at John over the rim of the thick walled mug. “I guess you kinda stand out from the regulars. And not just because you’re wearing leopard print faux fur at six am on a weekday. So,” he leans forward, putting his mug down, “You’re wearing faux fur so I’m guessing you care about animals. Am I right?”

John tries to resist the urge to lean away from Jim, opting instead to lean in. “Yes, yes I do. What of it?”

Did - did Jim just lean in closer? Or is John’s gremlin brain playing tricks on him?

“But I bet you still think whatever it is that’s out there should be shot on sight, right? Like it’s got a taste for human flesh so surely it’s gotta be put down?” Jim raises an eyebrow.

"No, definitely not," John shakes his head, quite vehemently. "Like sure I'm vegan -” Jim groans at that. John ignores him. “- because I have issues with the industrial farming complex, but I don't support hunting for sport either obviously, and that’s basically what that would be. Tranq darts are a thing, no need to kill an animal that's just, like...being an animal. Like something that’s capable of this level of destruction, wouldn’t they rather, I don’t know, trap and study it or something? There’s gotta be _something_ they can do that doesn’t involve killing it just for doing what animals do and trying to survive.”

He finishes with a vague gesture with his hands, and it hits him that all of this is...kinda weird. Like one minute he’s cruising for a bruising (literally), the next he’s venting his spleen on his personal lifestyle choices to someone who hasn’t asked (and probably doesn’t care, given the sheer amount of meat he just ordered,) but the weirdest thing about it all is that John doesn’t feel weird. Like, at all. The situation might be strange but John feels comfortable, relaxed; two things he pretty much never is in the company of someone he’s just met. Spilling his guts to Jim feels natural, for the want of a better word. Like he _wants_ to tell him everything but also do nothing but listen to Jim talk and talk for hours, and between not pausing for a breath and thinking about Jim’s voice he’s got himself breathless and panting. Not a great look.

It takes him a second to recover from his diatribe and realise that Jim’s expression’s changed a bit. His hands are clasped in front of his mouth, eyes just peeking over the top of his folded fingers, but John can see his lips part in a smile that looks almost...shy? Fond, maybe. It makes John feel a little giddy, even if he doesn’t really understand it. His heart jumps a little when Jim twitches, looks as though he’s about to say something, but whatever it is is lost when the waitress comes over, banging down several plates like they’ve personally offended her.

They barely talk while they eat. John just picks at his fries and nurses his drink, genuinely too spellbound by Jim to do much else. The man eats like he’s on death row and starving, shovelling forkfuls of multiple meats into his mouth like if he doesn’t, someone will take it away from him. Now that they’re up close again, John’s another hint of a smell, different from before when they were outside. Something running deep beneath the fried meats and the bitter acrid tang of cheap coffee, like wet earth and pine and ground fog on a cold morning, and John wants to ask why, what does Jim do, wants to poke and pry and dig his fingers into the spaces between Jim’s ribs to pull out all his secrets. 

But he stays silent.

They pass the rest of breakfast in companionable near-silence, John passing Jim the syrup when he asks and Jim blushing faintly when he catches John staring. And John does stare. Can’t stop himself. He can feel a heat building deep in his gut and the intensity of it scares him a little. It’s a really fucking intense feeling to have for someone you’ve just set eyes on, whose surname you don’t even know yet. 

“You wanna continue this conversation at my place?” Jim asks when his plates are clean, throwing a handful of bills on the table. “I need a fucking drink.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little early for that?” 

"Nah this is pretty much the middle of the night for me, and I got the good shit back at mine." Jim says, swiping his napkin around his mouth. John swallows, hard.

"I don't drink, man."

Jim chuckles, and it's warm and musical and makes John feel funny. "Neither do I. Dude, I mean _coffee._ I've got one of those Nespresso numbers cos I like, basically live on that _Kazaar_ shit. It’s like dynamite filled with rocket fuel.”

_“Woooow,”_ John says, legitimately impressed and slightly scared, “You really like your caffeine, dontcha?” 

“Eh, I don’t sleep so good y’know so. It’s a necessary evil.” Jim glances around the room, avoids John’s gaze. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

John slides his sunglasses back down over his eyes as they step outside, and turning to Jim he forgets what he was opening his mouth to say as Jim covers it with his own. Huge hands frame his face as a tongue that tastes of iron and salt curls around his own, over and over, licking the sense straight from his brain. Jim kisses him like he’s hungry, John can feel an almost feral energy heating his hands where they dumbly grip Jim’s hips to steady himself. Just as John’s getting his shit together enough to properly lean into the kiss Jim’s pulling back, dropping a last peck on John’s lips.

“I - wha - ?” he starts, but Jim shushes him, presses their lips together again briefly and rubbing a thumb across John’s cheek. He bites his lip as his brow furrows, and John’s worried Jim’s having second thoughts because he suddenly looks nervous. Nervous and it’s so at odds with the confident creature he’s been for the past hour that John feels the burn of need turn into tremor of concern. Which feels ridiculous, because again _he’s only just met this guy, why does he care so much?_

Jim interrupts his train of thoughts when he leans in again, pressing their foreheads together. “Are you sure about this?” he whispers. John thinks he misheard him at first, but those glassy green eyes rimmed with red pull him in, and he’s nodding without even realising. Then Jim’s pulling back, completely this time, and they don’t talk again until the cab pulls up and Jim drags John inside.


	2. Caffeine Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Yes, he’d been on the prowl and this was technically his end goal, but...it also wasn’t? He’d been picturing something more like “Boy meets werewolf, boy gets ass wrecked, boy goes home with hopefully only his ass eaten and nothing else..."_
> 
> or, John's getting closer to finding out the truth, but is he ready for the truth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took a minute wow. This is 4k of desperation for both me and our horny simpletons, if people don't like this I'll cry

The journey to Jim's place takes  _ just _ long enough and takes them  _ just _ far enough out of town for John to start wondering if he's about to be murdered. The hot asphalt under the cab’s wheels turns into well worn dirt tracks as the scenery moves from towering concrete starting to bustle with life waking up, to quiet lanes and more people with dogs and fewer cars, all framed by tall trees exploding with colour in the autumn morning air. The eternal city boy, John’s mesmerised. By the time they pull up in front of a squat little ranch-style house with a wrap-around porch, a barn, and thick woodland in the background, John’s figuring that if he’s about to be slaughtered, then at least it’s happening in beautiful surroundings. The crime scene photos will be extraordinary.

Jim passes a few bills to the driver, waving off John’s offer to pitch in with a vague explanation of intending to get a taxi anyway, which reminds John that he has zero recollection of who paid for breakfast, or it being paid for at all, and he feels more than a little wrong-footed as he scrambles out the car to follow Jim up the dusty path. He’s still a little shaken, and John’s never been drunk but he’s pretty sure that this is what tipsy feels like. Just being around this man mountain has John off-kilter but it still doesn’t seem to be bothering him. Why would it? Jim’s gorgeous and seems pretty damn interested in John, and wasn’t that his at least partly his goal? Ok so sure, technically he’d been looking for a more... _ specific _ guy, and he can’t quite tell yet if Jim fits that bill or not, but who the fuck cares when a literal living  _ monolith _ seems amenable to dicking you down? Dick is dick, after all.

The porch is a  _ mess. _ There’s tools and parts that to John look vaguely like instruments of torture everywhere tracing a  _ Hansel and Gretel- _ esque crumb trail around and behind the house. Into the acreage John can see, but not as far as the big barn at the back of the property. The doors of that are shut tight.  _ Hmm. _ John doesn’t know much about...what the hell the miscellaneous metal is, but he’s pretty sure it’d fare better kept away from the elements. Indoors. Somewhere like a garage. Or, y’know,  _ the barn _ ?

Jim sleepily rocks back into him as he digs in his pockets for his keys, pulling John away from the distraction. Pulling John back to Jim, catching him in that weird net of attraction again. John’s not even sure how his attention strayed from Jim in the first place. In a moment of what feels like slight madness, John steps forward, steps into Jim’s space and wraps his arms around him, presses close to his back and runs his hands under Jim's shirt. The hair on his belly is soft and downy, skin warm under John’s fingertips. He wouldn’t normally be so touchy-feely with a lay, especially  _ before  _ they have sex. Usually the closest he gets to snuggling is a brief spoon after sex while he catches his breath before either leaving or sending them home. But Jim smells nice, like trees and fresh air, and kinda like,  _ radiates _ warmth, and John can’t resist. Jim doesn’t seem to mind and purrs at the contact before covering one hand with his own over his t-shirt, gripping it tight while he fumbles with his keys. It takes him a few tries to get the key in the lock, swaying slightly as he yawns, but eventually it tumbles open and they fall into the house. Then Jim has John crowded against the door with his face is those big hands again, and John can’t breathe again. A warm tongue that tastes of iron and coffee works its way into his mouth and John doesn’t even care that he can taste animal flesh as well, or that his face is starting to feed a bit chafed by Jim’s stubble. The kisses are just too good.

But just as swiftly as Jim had grabbed him, the kisses stop and he’s moving away, leaving John standing there in the hallway with his lips pursed, kissing the air like a cartoon skunk. Blinking he looks around as if someone might see him acting the fool, and quickly follows the banging noises to the kitchen.

The kitchen’s just as much of a mess as the outside of the house, tools and other mechanical bits and pieces littering most surfaces. It's not dirty though, just messy. It’s a nice room. Very…quaint, John thinks. It’s got shutters outside the windows and a stable-type door. Comfortable. Homey. Totally not in keeping with the air of “metalhead” Jim exudes. Takes all kinds, he supposes. Jim’s already got the coffee going, back to John while he pulls out mugs and spoons, and the smell fills the room and adds to the overall warm atmosphere. John takes the opportunity to check out Jim’s ass.  _ Nice. _

“Cream, sugar?” Jim turns around before John can tear his eyes away and he feels himself start to blush at being caught staring. Oh right, the coffee. The whole reason John’s supposed to be there. Yep, that’s it. Coffee. Coffee and...what? Sex? That was his initial ideal but the more time he spends in Jim’s company all he wants is just that; more time around him, regardless of what they get up to.

“Is the sugar organic?” John asks, cheeks burning. Man, this guy has him all turned around.

Jim squints at him. “It’s ‘Walmart Great Value’.”

“Uh no, neither thanks. Vegan, remember?”

Jim looks like he’s thinking, then there’s the flash of recall. “But didn’t you have sweet iced tea back at the diner? Isn’t sugar vegan?” He crooks an eyebrow at John. 

_ Frick, he’s cute, _ John thinks. He tries to ignore the flash of want the expression on Jim’s face sends down his spine, rooting through his pocket to pull out the little dropper of stevia sweetener. “Nah I got plain and put sweetener in it. I think you were too busy taking down half a pig to notice,” He gives Jim what he hopes is a cheeky smile, hoping Jim knows he’s joking and not judging. Jim smiles back.  _ Jackpot. _ “Some sugar is filtered through bone char and I don’t like taking risks. With food, I mean,” he stammers.

If Jim caught the twang of embarrassment in John’s voice he doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t say anything else at all. Just goes back to staring at the coffee machine while it whirrs and clunks and finally splutters out a cup of steaming coffee. Setting it to the side he rinses and repeats then turns and sets a brimming mug on the kitchen table in front of John. Brushing past him, empty left hand briefly stroking John’s, he ambles through to the living room and shucks his jacket, throwing it over the back of an armchair. John follows suit. In unison they both flop down onto a threadbare, overstuffed and incredibly comfortable couch, and John doesn’t bother with the pretence of sitting at the opposite end to Jim; instead he sits close enough that their knees touch where they’re tilted onto the cushion between them. Jim's free hand seemingly automatically rests on John's thigh, stroking the fabric of his jeans with his thumb. John doesn’t say anything but his skin feels like it's on fire under Jim's hand. Jesus, it practically covers the whole span of John's leg. He gulps.  _ That _ 's  _ really hot... _

For a while they just sip and stare, making idle chit-chat about Jim’s house, the odd machinery (they’re mostly motorcycle parts, with a few odds and ends from Jim’s ancient truck thrown in. John stands by his opinion that they look like instruments of death because so far that’s what his experience of bikes has been). John tells Jim about his guitar collection, and Jim perks up and makes John promise to send him a photo of his vintage gold telecaster when he gets home. John lets out a sigh of relief internally at the tacit confirmation that he’s going to  _ get _ to go home. It's never a guarantee even with human guys, never mind the… _ other kind _ of guy. John’s known more than one tail-chaser to go missing after choosing the wrong guy to go home with.

They slip into a silence that’s almost comfortable, if a little weird, listening to the drone of music left playing somewhere in the house. It’s nice. Idyllic. Still kinda super weird, but not in a way that bothers John in the slightest. Which he knows should make him at least a little unnerved, but he just feels... _ comfortable _ with Jim, despite not knowing him from Adam. It matches up with his research; feeling relaxed and a little spacey, at peace and unafraid, attracted to this person that he barely fucking knows but knows could be a dangerous predator but he just doesn’t  _ care _ . Whether it’s pheromones or something, John doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. He’s a fly to Jim’s spider and he has cheerfully walked into his web of his own accord. 

At least the web has good coffee. He’s just lifting his mug to his lips again when -

“So, you never answered my question.”

John jumps, warm liquid dribbling over his fingers. There he goes again, zoning out because Jim’s staring at him and making him feel all dopey and chill. He frowns at Jim as he sucks his fingers, too confused to even appreciate the look that passes over Jim’s face. “Uh, which question?” he asks. “You asked a few and as I recall, I answered them.”

“The one about why you were outside a  _ ‘freaking Denny’s’ _ at ass o’clock in the morning,” Jim answers, setting his cup on the coffee table. 

“I  _ did _ answer that one! I told you, I was there to meet someone.”

Jim doesn't respond, just again raises an eyebrow, nostrils flaring. It’s like he can freaking  _ smell _ John trying to avoid the question. They're basically just repeating everything they'd done over breakfast, and it’s not that John doesn’t want to know more about Jim, he just doesn’t want to know it  _ right now _ . Right now he just wants manhandled into Jim’s lap and fucked rotten. Or to suck Jim’s soul out through his dick. 

Exaggeratedly scrunching his face up, John puts his mug down too and tries to think; if he’s honest with himself, he genuinely doesn’t know. Yes, he’d been on the prowl and this was  _ technically _ his end goal, but...it also wasn’t? He’d been picturing something more like  _ “Boy meets werewolf, boy gets ass wrecked, boy goes home with hopefully only his ass eaten and nothing else” _ . There wasn’t  _ supposed _ to be fucking  _ conversation  _ and  _ coffee  _ and Jim wasn’t supposed to be  _ nice _ and  _ friendly _ and - freakin’ -  _ gentlemanly. _ They’ve been here nearly an hour and they’re both still fully clothed, for god’s sake. And John had  _ specifically _ worn clothes he wouldn’t object to being torn, too. 

It all boils down to  _ “I wanted to get laid” _ , he figures.

“I wanted to get laid,” he answers.

The noise Jim makes is closer to a bark than a laugh, but it’s warm and infectious and John can’t help but giggle a little himself. It’s quickly stifled by Jim’s lips though as he leans forward and kisses him, eyes fluttering shut and strong arms circling John’s shoulders and tugging until Jim’s leaning back against the overstuffed cushions with John pressed tight to his chest. 

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled, “Don’t I get to ask  _ you _ questions?”

“Later,” Jim hums before pulling away from the kiss to yawn. As humans do, John echoes it. He’s suddenly exhausted, despite the caffeine. He should probably start making his excuses to leave. Falling asleep on some random guy's couch isn’t usually John’s idea of a good time, nor does it seem particularly sexy or attractive so really, it’s time to go. He tried, he failed, you win some you lose some. Maybe just one more kiss though. Jim turns back to him and John slides their lips together again, filling his lungs with the way Jim tastes while trying to suppress a yawn of his own. He’s been up since the early hours, the endorphins are starting to settle, it all just  _ makes sense _ that he’s so tired. Right. It’s time to go.

But Jim hums quietly into the kiss, fingers tangling into John’s hair and tugging just the tiniest bit, and John lets himself be caught in Jim’s web again. His lips are soft, as are the little grunts he makes when John runs his tongue across Jim’s bottom lip before nipping it gently. John feels a rush in his groin and  _ there they are _ , the endorphins again, along with butterflies in his stomach. They’re not picking up speed or getting increasingly passionate, but John’s fine with that; it’s actually really nice to just make out with someone for once. Usually kissing is just an optional extra, the sprinkles on top of the vegan ice cream sundae. With Jim it feels like foreplay.

The kisses slow after a while though, and eventually Jim breaks away and tips his head back, eyes closing. "I have something I need to confess…" Jim hums. John's stomach instantly feels like it's going to fall out of his butt. "I'm sorry, but I’m dog-tired, man."

The yawn comes out before John can stop it, right into Jim’s face. “Sorry, sorry, I, uh, guess I’m pretty tired too,” John confesses. “I should go, thanks for the coffee!” He grimaces inwardly. Too bright, too forced-cheerful. John makes to get up off the couch, but Jim doesn’t let him go, his arm becoming stiff as an iron bar, pinning John in place against Jim’s broad chest. Smiling, John takes the hint; nuzzles into the crook of Jim’s neck and sighs, letting his eyes close too.

\-----

John wakes up with a start, jerking up a little, surroundings blurry and unfamiliar. His head swims, eyes unfocused, and he can’t think where the hell he is. Then he feels the heavy arm around his shoulders, the smell of fresh air and grass and metal on clothing, the warmth against his chest and stomach, and it comes back to him. The Denny’s, the cab, the coffee…

...the guy?

He looks down, tracing his eyes up and down the slab of denim and plaid he's been lying on. Jim’s still fast asleep, soft snores puffing his lips and gently shifting the strands of hair that’ve fallen across his face. Just when John thought he couldn’t look any softer…

Something twitches under John’s hand and  _ uh oh,  _ something’s definitely not soft. Shit, he didn’t even realise where his hand was but when he looks back and sees it sitting on Jim’s crotch John’s heart flies into his throat. He leans into the touch just a little, curls his hand around the length and feels that twitch again, hears the tiniest rumble in Jim’s throat. Oh no. It’s sexy.  _ Really _ sexy, low and velvety and it sends a shiver down John’s spine. Even through the thick denim John can feel Jim’s dick swell and he gulps hard in his throat. It’s big.  _ Really _ big. John's always been a bit of a size queen but this...

He really should leave. Sure he’s been enjoying Jim’s company but it’s...it’s been weird. Really really weird. Since Jim materialised in front of John outside Denny’s however many hours ago, John’s felt like an untethered balloon bouncing around inside a ship on stormy seas. Obviously no encounter with a potential fucking  _ werewolf _ is going to be  _ normal _ , the clue’s kinda in the name, but this is a different breed of strange. The nap definitely cleared some of the cobwebs and now John's incredibly aware of how stupid it was to let his guard down. He got too caught up in the silent signals Jim was putting out and he curses himself for making such a rookie mistake. At least he's still got the skin on his back though. He could go now, before things go any further, before Jim wakes up and puts the screws to John's willpower again. Slowly he relaxes his grip.

"Mmm, don't stop…" Jim mumbles, and John jumps in fright and tries to pull his hand away but Jim's already covering it with his own, pressing John's hand down against himself and grinding against it. John gasps out loud, his own body responding instantly. Jim's making little whiny sounds as he humps against their hands, and when he leans in to press humid kisses against John's neck John's pretty sure he's seeing stars. Those kisses move to his cheeks, the corner of his lips, over until they're sloppily pressed together again. Jim finally lifts his hand from John's, but it's only to grab a hold of John's belt and haul him up and over. John half squeaks and half moans, as Jim starts thrusting up against him now that their hands are out of the way. John can't breathe, this is exactly what he wanted and he's still vaguely aware that he's making a mistake, but the clouds have descended again and now all he cares about is Jim and his stupid big hands and all the things they could be doing to John right now.

Now, John's lying half on top of Jim, chest to chest, and Jim's hands are soft and warm where they've slid up under John's shirt and  _ Jesus, _ they're huge. Practically wrap around John's waist and it makes him feel tiny and fragile, and when a rough thumb grazes his nipple he makes a noise that nearly makes him spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment. Jim doesn’t seem to care, not when he echoes the sound back into John’s mouth.

“D’you have condoms? I’m clean. Condoms are fine though. Whatever you’d prefer. Do you have lube? I think I have some in my coat,” John babbles while he desperately works Jim's zip down with his left hand, whining as he fumbles with the button because he needs this, wants Jim so bad that he doesn't even know what he wants to fucking  _ do _ , he just knows that if he doesn't get that zip open and Jim's dick out he's going to cry. Then finally it's open and  _ Jim’s not wearing any fucking underwear _ and his voice catches in his throat as John pulls away just long enough to spit in his hand and wrap it around his length. Jim’s dick is hard and hot in John’s grip as they pant into each others mouths, and John starts to rut against him again like a stupid horny teenager. They’re barely even kissing at this point, John’s just nipping and sucking at Jim’s lips while his mouth hangs open, panting and whining while he fucks up into John’s hand. He’s already drooling precome, adding to the saliva and making his strokes slick and easy, and Jim nearly convulses when John rubs his thumb hard across the tip. 

But panic hits John dead in the centre of his chest when Jim suddenly grips his wrist, tight enough to hurt, and drags his hand up and away. It’s quelled slightly when Jim brings it to his mouth, presses hard kisses to the palm and just holds John’s fingertips to his lips while he catches his breath. He’s flushed and sweaty and John’s so confused; he’s never been stopped mid-handjob before, and judging by how heavily Jim’s breathing against John’s hand, he doesn’t really want John to stop.

“What -” John starts, but Jim interrupts him.

“I’m sorry, I’m - I’m really sorry,” he blurts, not looking at John’s face. “It’s just. It’s been a long time and I just -  _ fuck, _ ” he stops, seemingly frustrated by his inability to articulate what he’s trying to say. John shuts his mouth, opting to give Jim a chance to find his tongue.

With a deep breath, Jim tries again. “It’s been a long time since I’ve, like,  _ been with someone _ , and the last time, just...wasn’t good. People - people got hurt, and I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Something in John melts a little at that, considering they’ve only known each other a handful of hours. His brain rationalises that it’s the endorphins again making them both a bit more easily affected, a little more emotional, but a sliver of fire still runs through him. And anyway, he’s a big boy, he can handle a little rough stuff. He's done his research.

“How hurt is hurt?”

“I had to repaint.”

John blinks, completely unable to do the mental arithmetic to work out what the heck Jim means. 

Jim apparently takes John’s confused silence for fear, as he continues, "Fuck,  _ fuck,  _ now I’ve freaked you out and you’re gonna think I’m a murderer or something, which I mean um -  _ no,  _ that’s not what I mean, I -” he licks his lips, groaning as John twists his hand around the head of his dick. "I just - I don't usually fuck on the first date cos I don't wanna hurt anyone and I don't want you to think I'm some kinda freak but - I -,"

John’s laugh drowns out whatever else Jim was saying because  _ jeeze Louise _ , how can someone be so adorable while reassuring a guy that they're not a serial killer? He silences Jim by grabbing his face and plopping a wet smooch on his frozen lips. 

“You think that  _ I’d _ think  _ you _ were a freak who doesn't fuck on the first date, when  _ I  _ was the one digging into  _ your _ pants? Dude, I think you’ve got things backward,” 

Jim looks almost sad. “I just, y’know, didn’t want you to be mad or freaked out cos we’re probably not gonna have sex cos like, I figure that’s why you came home with me.”

John kisses him once. "Well, why don't you just kiss me instead?" Making out for hours doesn’t sound like a terrible idea.

And Jim does exactly that. John melts again, and smiles into the kiss as they fall together again.

Their hands inevitably start to wander, of course, and John finds that hardness under his hand again, and this time he just  _ can’t _ ignore it. He needs to know. Apart from anything else, John knows that a tell-tale sign of a werewolf is a knot, and the fact that he has proof literally at his fingertips is almost too much to bear. All thoughts of  _ 'just making out' _ fly out of John's head. “Can I suck your dick?” John gasps, practically  _ begs _ , cos he fucking needs this. Needs it more than he understands because hey, it’s not like John isn’t getting dick on the regular. It’s just...just this fucking guy is messing with his mind and John needs the weight of his cock on his tongue and that strain on his jaw and  _ fuck _ , he knows he’s pushing Jim’s boundaries and that’s not something he’d normally do with someone he’s just met and doesn’t know how they’d react, but he has a fucking ache of need in his chest and it’s driving him crazy.

“But-” Jim starts, and John shushes him, putting a skinny bird-boned hand on his chest and pressing him back into the couch, sliding it down to push his shirt up. Before Jim can argue John’s leaning down, pressing slow kisses to the soft, fuzzy skin there. Jim gasps then sighs, sinks against the pillows as he threads a hand into John’s hair. He keens a little, shifts his hips, but John keeps his pace slow and even, every movement advertised and gentle. By the time he’s wiggled his way between Jim’s legs, Jim’s nearly silent, save for his heavy breathing and the occasional whine.

“I’ll go slow.” John just mouths at Jim’s length at first, not entirely certain how to even start. Jim’s not enormous but he’s girthy and longish and there’s the looming spectre of a potential knot to deal with. John’s got skills and he’s tried them out on dicks of all shapes and sizes but this...this might be Everest, and John is George Mallory tumbling to his doom. 

This definitely isn’t just any normal dick. It  _ feels _ different. Rolling his tongue around the tip he slides his hand up and down a few times, trying to pinpoint where the difference is. He sucks again, harder this time, making Jim moan out loud and  _ there  _ it is. It’s like a  _ swelling _ almost? And not that sudden stiff surge of someone about to come, or a half-hard dick filling with blood, but a  _ very specific _ swelling in a  _ very specific _ place, right down near the base of his cock where John’s hand has a tight grip. 

Oh god, oh  _ fuck _ , if this is what John thinks it is he’s hit the fucking jackpot, baby.

“B-baby, stop,  _ fuck,” _ Jim whines on a breath, tugging on John’s hair. He sounds desperate, which only spurs John on. Grabbing John's hand off his cock he pleads over and over. " _ Please,  _ I'm gonna - I'm gonna -"

The words die in his throat as John rubs his tongue against the frenulum  _ hard _ , and Jim comes unravelled in John's mouth. Gulping hard John steels himself. Knows werewolves come more than your average guy, and he'd checked the moon calendar; Jim shouldn't come much more than a mouthful, but he should be prepared just in case.

Oh wow, definitely a bit more than a mouthful. Actually, more like several mouthfuls. John tries to take a breath through his nose, but it unfortunately coincides with Jim’s dick pulsing  _ again _ and John swallows out of instinct at the same time, which sends a decent amount of come  _ right  _ up the back of John’s sinuses. He grunts, and there’s a beat of silence before he rears back, howling, hands coming up to clutch his face. He’s not fast enough though, and another spurt catches him right between the eyes and splashes into both.

When he was a teenager, John once masturbated so furiously that he managed to get come right in his own eye. He’d thought that would be a pain that he’d remember for the rest of his life, but apparently not. It’s so much worse than he remembers. Now his eyes are burning and his nose is burning and his throat is burning and what the actual  _ fuck _ just happened? He can hear Jim cackling but every time he tries to wipe his face he's just spreading the come on his hand everywhere, and it just makes Jim laugh harder. 

Scrambling to his feet and trying to keep his scalding eyes open, he bellows,  _ "Where's the fucking bathroom??"  _ and can only just make out Jim's directions between the wheezy laughs. Growling audibly, he takes one last look at Jim's shaking form before turning on his heel and rushing in what he hopes is the vague direction of the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dysphorie.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com


End file.
